Defeating History
by Musical Redhead
Summary: Paris gets the chance to confront the real Tristan Dugray. She's completely over him, but she realizes she wants something from him.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** There was one scene in the revival that sparked my interest, and made me think, huh, I can ship that. I don't know how Paris ended up where she is, and unlike some writers, I feel the need to justify things, so I took a stab at it. Feel free to dispute it. This takes place a few days after AYITL.

 **Defeating History**

Paris showed her last appointment out the door and went back to her desk to pour over some paperwork. She was exhausted after staying up way too late watching election results the night before. She collected some paperwork to take home with her. The kids would be in bed before long anyway, so she could get in a few more hours of work while the house was quiet. On her drive, she passed a bar and glanced at the time. She needed a drink. It had been a long day after a horrifyingly disappointing night. It hadn't dissipated after a few hours sleep. If anything, a state of depression set in.

Paris parked and walked through the door of the establishment. But with one look at the bar, she stopped short at the blond sitting at one of the stools. It couldn't be.

He didn't have a blond hair out of place, in its familiar combed forward style. He had on dress pants and a button down shirt without a tie or jacket. God help her, he still looked good. It would make her feel a lot better if he'd at least not aged well.

Her heart pounded as panic seized her. She had to leave, she couldn't face him, not after her freak out at Chilton. What were the chances she'd run into him twice within a year when he'd been out of sight and out of mind for more than a decade? Before running away like she had at their alma mater, she took a deep breath. She had a life coach, hadn't she? What good was he if she couldn't face old demons head on? Calming down and lifting her chin defiantly, she marched up to Tristan Dugray and tapped him on the shoulder.

When he turned to face his intruder, he choked on his drink and coughed a little.

Scowling at him, she firmly said, "I am over you."

He stared for a moment, wide eyed, and then blinked. "Oh-kay," he said slowly.

"You have no hold over me, and I am completely unaffected by your presence. That brief episode at Chilton was a fluke, and even I'll admit it was bizarre." She continued, "I may have been young and stupid once, but I'm a grown woman now and you have no affect on me whatsoever." She raised her voice as she looked from side to side. "I want everyone in this bar to know that I have no feelings at all for Tristan Dugray."

His eyes narrowed in confusion. "Chilton? That was a long time ago."

"It was not, it was last spring. Or fall—or was it winter? No, that's definitely wrong," she said, frowning to herself. She shook it off. "I can't remember which season it was, they blur together." She waved a hand. "It doesn't matter. Don't get hung up on the details, they aren't important. You were there, you had a girl backed up against the wall, trapped there so you could flirt with her. Not surprising, it's what you do. I had a meltdown just at the sight of you."

Tristan look concerned. "You saw _me_ at Chilton flirting with a girl within the past year?" he asked. "Is that school a portal to the past? It sounds like you saw me circa sophomore year. I'm 32, not 16." He said, "You saw someone else."

"No, it was you."

He lifted his hands, palms up. "Paris, it was not. I can tell you unequivocally, not only was I in Spain at the time, but I also never went back to Chilton," he said. "Not this year or any other after I was shipped off. Why would I?"

"They had alumni come back to speak to the students—a sorry bunch if you ask me. And I saw you with my own eyes," Paris insisted. "Rory saw you too."

"Rory?"

"Don't play dumb," she scolded. "Rory Gilmore. Who else?"

"Oh. Sorry, it's been a long time, and the Chilton crew aren't at the forefront of my mind." He said, "You both saw someone else. I never graduated from Chilton, so they don't invite me back. Which makes sense, when you think about it." He said, "I'm a little concerned about the guy you did see though. Was he was flirting with a student? You probably should have brought it to the headmaster's attention. Someone should have thrown that creeper out."

Deflated, Paris said, "It wasn't you?"

"Nope."

Her shoulders dropped an inch. "I freaked out over nothing?"

Tristan shook his head. "That's ridiculous, look at you," he said, doing so as he said it. She was in her normal work attire, skinny pants and a blazer. "Grown-ass Paris does not care about me."

"Mid-divorce Paris does," she deadpanned. "She also carries around an empty briefcase to impress high school kids."

"So chalk it all up to a personal crisis," he reasoned. "You weren't yourself."

"Sorry for the interruption, I should go."

Before she could turn away though, Tristan's hand was on her shoulder. "Didn't you come in here for a drink?" he asked. "Stay for a drink. I'm sure you'd like a distraction from reality about now."

"I should get home. I can still get some work done tonight."

"And what work is that?" he asked. Then he pointed a finger at her with narrowed eyes. "Doctor, right?"

He remembered? Her knees definitely didn't go weak.

She answered, "I impregnate women."

Tristan Dugray _was_ still good looking. Abnormally good looking, and he wasn't an idiot, she'd seen enough of his schoolwork to know. He was the perfect male specimen. He had great genes. Women would take one look at him, with his academic aptitude, and want to bear his offspring. Why hadn't she thought of it before? She'd been clouded by her feelings when she saw him at Chilton—or whomever that was. But now that she was thinking clearly, it made perfect sense. He easily met the age requirement and was physically fit, she just needed to ask some simple medical questions.

He blinked. "Well you can't leave me hanging like that." His hand slid down her arm to pull her back over. "You can stay for one drink, you're a grown-ass woman."

She climbed onto the stool next to him. "This drinking, do you do it a lot?"

XXX

A few drinks later, "Doyle and I were good together, back in college." Paris said, "I tried to cut him loose when I was agonizing over where to go for grad school, but he insisted he'd go anywhere I went. Then after we got married he became a screenwriter. A successful one." She concluded, "Before I knew it, he was relocating to California and I didn't know who he was anymore."

Tristan nodded as he listened.

"I guess that makes me selfish, for not following him like he did for me."

Tristan shook his head. "Nah, you were just starting to get women pregnant. He could have worked on his screenplays from New York coffee shops." He laughed to himself. "He's one of those guys, isn't he?"

Paris grinned and exhaled a silent chuckle. "Yeah." Diplomatically, she said, "I got the house, so I won." He clinked his glass against hers as his congratulations. She took a deep gulp of her drink. "We share the kids."

"How many?"

"Two. A boy and a girl," she said. "Hey, how would you describe your general mental and physical health?"

"Uh, good."

"You haven't taken up any vices, have you? Smoking, drugs?"

His brows furrowed. "No."

"No to the smoking, or no to the drugs?"

"To both." He frowned, but shook it off and said, "You went to med school and law school and started your own business. Where did you possibly find the time to have kids?"

She waved her hand as she took a drink. "I just fit them in." She was about to ask if he'd ever been diagnosed with any diseases, but he asked one of his own.

"What happened to cancer research?"

"What do you mean? It's ongoing."

"Isn't that what you wanted to do?"

"Oh." That made her forget her questionnaire. "You remember that?"

"Yeah, it was after your aunt died. You always said you were going to cure cancer after that," he said. "I thought it was because of her."

Paris was quiet, remembering a much younger version of herself. "Things change," she said. "Harvard became Yale. Cancer research became surgery, but surgery turned out to not be for me."

"Why not? You have the personality for it."

"Tough bitch?" she asked rhetorically. "Two years into my residency Doyle and I decided it was a good time to start a family. Between pregnancy and the surgery rotation, I was exhausted. And for what?" She answered, "Colonoscopies and bypassses. Or worse, getting stuck draining butt puss, or holding fat flaps," she answered. "The boredom wasn't worth the exhaustion, so I did an endocrinology fellowship and got into reproduction."

"And the reproductive business?"

"Yup." He nodded and she asked, "What have _you_ been up to?" Before he could answer, she said, "Wait, wait. Let me guess." She assessed him with her hard gaze. "You're a finance guy—maybe private equity or hedge funds. Ooh, or venture capital, that sounds about right. And you've got yourself a young hot trophy wife, still in her mid-20's. And you live in an oversized McMansion."

Tristan shook his head. "Wrong."

Skeptically, "Which part?"

"All the parts." He lifted his left hand for her to see the absence of a ring. "First."

She lifted a brow. "Divorced?"

"No. And I can't believe you think I'd ever live in a McMansion. Do you think I'm that tacky?" She lifted a shoulder half-heartedly as she took a drink. He said, "Well I'm not. I have inherent good taste, and aesthetic restraint. It's genetic."

Yes, yes, good genes, she wasn't arguing. "Fine. I made a few wrong guesses."

"You made three out of three wrong guesses," he said. "I don't work in finance, either. I'm finishing up my commission with the JAG Corps."

"Military lawyer?" When he nodded, she asked, "How'd you get into that?"

"Career day, senior year. Then I talked it over with my sister." He added, "She's in family law."

Paris nodded once. "I deal with that, with my breeders."

Tristan made a face. "You mean the surrogates?"

"Same difference," she said dismissively. "I guess military school really backfired on your parents, huh?"

"Not as much as you would think," he said. "I thought they would be really mad. But my brave break from conformity inspired them to leave the East Coast."

"Really?"

"Mm-hmm. They liberated themselves and moved out to California," he said. "They're gluten free now." He gestured for the bartender to bring them another round of drinks, to which Paris did not protest.

She asked, "If your commission is almost up, what are you going to do next?" She raised a brow, as though in a dare. "Work for the next administration?"

Tristan shook his head no. "I advised on a lot of legal matters, and I'm actually leaning towards . . ." He trailed off to look both ways. Then tilted his head in to whisper, " _Environmental law_."

Paris snorted. "You won't make any money."

"That's okay. My parents have to die some day, and they'll leave me something. I will, of course, take care of my sister and her kid." He mused, "There _is_ a small chance my parents will leave everything to their dog. But I should get custody, so I think we'll still be okay."

"Speaking of your parents, do any hereditary diseases run in your family that you know of?"

He shook his head. "No."

"What about male pattern baldness?"

He splayed his hand toward his head. "What do you think?"

"Good, good," she said with a nod.

XXX

Tristan threw back a shot and he and Paris giggled a little. "Did you say back there that you were once young and stupid?"

She thought for a second, sifting through the conversation from an hour or two ago. They'd had more than the one drink. At one point he suggested she text her nanny. She nodded when she remembered. "Yes. I was. I was very young, and very stupid. Why else why I have been in love with you for so long?"

"You weren't in love with me."

"I was too," she insisted. She slurred, "Don't tell me my feelings."

"Paris Geller has never been stupid," Tristan said. "You are the smartest person I've ever known." He drunkenly reiterated, "I've never met anyone who was close to being as smart as you."

"That's not true. You met Rory Gilmore. She dethroned me as top of the class and was valedictorian."

He waved a hand. "So she was good at memorizing things out of books? You have the steely determination to know everything. It's different."

"No," Paris said again, shaking her head. "I didn't even get into Harvard. That was my sole focus in life, and I failed. I had sex, but I didn't get into Harvard. Didn't you see my meltdown on C-SPAN?"

"I must not have been watching that day." He asked himself, "Why do I miss all your meltdowns?"

"It was on national television, so everyone saw. The smartest people get into Harvard. Like Rory, she got in."

He shook his head. "Who needs Rory and Harvard Gilmore?"

"Harvard med school accepted me."

"Oh." He blinked. "Yay Harvard, then. You'll always be the smartest person _I_ know, no matter which school took you."

He gave her the kind of look that made her believe he was being genuine. It made her insides gooey. Get a hold of yourself, Geller, she scolded herself. For a fleeting second, she imagined him in a uniform. Then she took a shot.

He asked, "Hey, what happened to Madeline and Louise?"

"I don't see them much, but they're still tight. I saw Louise a few years ago, but I haven't seen Madeline since spring break in Florida one year." She had to think for a second. "I was with Asher, so freshman year."

Tristan asked, "You didn't see them at the Chilton thing?"

"They weren't there."

"They weren't, but my doppelganger was? That doesn't sound right."

She shrugged. "I didn't organize it. Anyway, Louise came in wanting to have kids with her husband a few years ago. They needed some assistance to get things going, so I did what I do and she gave birth to healthy triplets."

Tristan made a pained face, as though three babies was unappealing to him.

"Some women need assistance to have a child," she said defensively. "There's no wrong way to make a family."

"I understand that, Sigourney."

He smirked as he said it, and she didn't hate it. She hated herself a little, for not hating it. Stop getting distracted! She blurted, "I want your sperm!"

Tristan's face slowly shifted to confusion. "You what?"

"I help people have kids, by a variety of means—IVF, artificial insemination, surrogacy, and in some cases, we use sperm that has been donated," she said. "Sometimes the men have the fertility problems, like if they're impotent or over 45, and there are single women who want kids, and lesbian couples. That's where you'd come in, as a male breeder."

"You want . . . I'm uncomfortable with that term."

"I'll pay you for the donations."

"It sounds like prostitution, but with a cup." Then, "Wait, donations, plural?"

"I'll have to run some tests on you, and I'll need your family's full medical history," she talked quickly, and as though she had not had a drop of alcohol. Determined, she ended with, "I can't let you go without a promise you'll give me your sperm. You're too perfect."

"Thank you?" He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Shouldn't I be sober for this kind of request? This seems a little unethical."

He was right. Paris slapped the countertop a few times. "Hey, barkeep, can we get some coffee down here?"

"This is a bar. We serve alcohol."

"Right. Okay, we'll have to go somewhere else. Let's go, get up." She climbed off the stool.

She reached for her pocketbook, but Tristan waved it away and pulled out her own wallet. "I'll get it." He asked, "When did you cut your hair short?"

She smoothed her locks behind her ear. "Oh, a few years ago."

"Looks good," he said.

Of course Tristan would notice. He noticed when she'd had an inch trim when they were 16. There weren't that many people in her life that noticed. She felt the old, dormant butterflies, but she willed them to go away. She was on a mission, and it was business only.

He continued, "You look like Tinkerbell." His eyes slid up and down her body in a way he never did when they were in school, making it a little harder to control the butterflies. "If Tinkerbell wore power suits."


	2. Chapter 2

Paris squinted in the bright sunlight the next morning. Why didn't she close the blinds last night? She turned over and closed her eyes again, and when she opened them, she saw the imprint on the pillow next to hers. The blankets were wrinkled from someone sleeping there.

She was with Tristan Dugray last night.

 _Tristan_.

They went for coffee to sober up after the bar, and she tried to persuade him to make monthly sperm donations for a year. It was a good cause.

"I'd have kids out there somewhere?" he had asked skeptically.

"No more than ten," she'd reassured. She went over all the legalities, which he actually was familiar with.

She'd begged. She had pleaded. She _flattered_.

And he had watched her talk. When she stopped for a breath, he asked her, "Were you always gorgeous?" It wasn't just the question itself, but the way he asked, like he was genuinely thinking back and trying to remember.

Caught off guard, she stammered something. Then she got mad at his trying to distract her. But then he just, kissed her. She had initially wanted to pull away, but he didn't let her, until she was giving in and kissing him back. It wasn't the peck on the cheek after their ill-advised date back in sophomore year, or that time he kissed her on a dare. It was an open mouthed, tongues lashing, knee weakening kiss. They ended up here.

Ugh, how did he do that?

She lifted her head enough to glance around the floor with a frown. She didn't see any of his clothes, so he must have gotten dressed and snuck out. That was about right. At least this time she would be spared from The Talk. The humiliating talk, where he'd reassure her he'd had a good time, but that they had friendly chemistry. This week was turning out bad enough, she didn't need Tristan Dugray to pile on.

She pushed the blankets away and sat up. She threw on a robe and went down two flights of stairs. Before rounding to go to the ground floor, she heard voices. One was her son, and the second was an adult male. Her heart pounded of its own volition. Tristan was still here?

He was dressed in his clothes from the night before and was sitting on the floor with the boy, talking quietly over their Lego creations. They both looked at her when she cleared her throat. With hardened eyes, she jerked her head indicating Tristan needed to step out into the hall for a word.

When he did so, she glared up at him. "What are you doing?"

"Playing Legos with Elliot," he answered. "Did you take him to see the the _Lego Movie_? There's a Batman one coming out." He went on, "You're lucky your kids are still young enough to play. My niece is pretty much over it. But we do text back and forth while we watch _Crazy Ex-Girlfriend_ , and that's fun."

Paris asked, "Did you ever think I might not want a random stranger playing with my kid?"

Tristan put a hand to his heart and faked a frown. "Random stranger? Paris, I'm hurt." Her glare bore into him. "Okay, sorry. I was looking for the kitchen to rustle up some breakfast. I thought I was downstairs, and I found him."

"This isn't the downstairs, it's the second floor."

"But I came down two flights. How many floors does this house have?" he asked.

"Five."

"Five? Is there an elevator?"

"No. Doyle didn't want to put one in."

"Well he doesn't live here anymore, so maybe revisit the idea." Then he said, "Unless this is a _Jane Eyre_ situation and he's actually locked up in the top floor." He focused on her then, giving her the strong desire to squirm. He took a step toward her, and she took a step away until her back was against the wall. Her brows creased as he lifted his arm above her to rest his hand on the wall. Leaning into her, he said, "Hey, I had a good time last night. Possibly the best time."

She imagined what they looked like, him trapping her. "I thought you said you don't do this anymore."

He became aware of himself and put his arm down as he took a step back. "I did. I don't. Did you have any thoughts about last night?"

"Yes. I hope I don't have a UTI."

He smirked. "If you do, I know a song about that."

Impatiently, she said, "You need to go. I have to get ready for work, and the nanny will take care of the kids." She yanked his arm to drag him down the stairs.

"Wait, we never finished negotiating my semen last night. I was thinking we could continue that tonight, over dinner, and then we'll see where things go after that."

She was about to give him an answer, when they heard a couple knocks on the front door, and then a key turning the lock.

Tristan's jaw clenched and his eyes, alert, flashed to the source of the sound. "Does your ex-husband still have a key?"

"No."

He went ahead of her, wearing a ridiculous expression of protectiveness. And since she didn't need that, they entered the foyer at the same time, coming face to face with Rory.

"Oh good, you're home." Then she looked from one of them to the other, surprised and confused. "Tristan?"

For one crushing second, Paris was sure Tristan was going to shift his attention to Rory. He'd probably blatantly hit on her and ask her to dinner on the spot, completely forgetting Paris was right there. Great, she was back to being invisible. It was so predictable, there was no reason to be disappointed. _So don't be_ , she ordered herself.

He pointed a finger at her. "It's Rory, right?"

Her face scrunched briefly as though his uncertainty, real or feigned, was insulting. "Yes."

"Do you need something?"

"I wanted to talk to Paris." Her eyes shifted to the blond woman, eyes questioning her.

Paris turned to Tristan. "You can go."

"We weren't done talking." He held his hands up, palms facing her. "I can wait, take your time." He pointed to the stairs. "I'll just go back to the Legos."

She sighed at his persistence. "Fine."

After he'd disappeared and it was just the two of them, Rory asked Paris, "What is _he_ doing here?"

"Drunken one-night stand," Paris said. "I just got through a divorce, and I have needs. Don't judge me, Mary." _Mary?_

Rory raised her chin an inch. "I've had a one-night stand, as a matter-of-fact. Last spring, I think it was, with a Wookie I was interviewing for an article."

"It was a source? That's unethical."

"I didn't end up writing the article," she said defensively. "It was a stupid topic anyway." She looked over toward the stairs. "I wasn't judging you, but still, Tristan? Tristan, who leans up over girls like they're his prey and he's going in for the kill?"

Paris rolled her eyes. "This isn't high school, he doesn't do that anymore."

"We just saw him doing it, when we were at Chilton."

"That wasn't him." She changed the subject, "What did you want to talk about?"

Rory beamed. "I've been writing something." She pulled out what looked like a manuscript. She held it in front of her, displaying the title, _Gilmore Girls_ , on the front cover.

"What is it?" Paris deadpanned.

Rory shifted the manuscript so she could hand it over. "It's the story of my life with my mom. Well, this is what I have so far. The first few chapters just flowed out of me. I've been having such a hard time this year finding something that interests me, but this has been so easy," she gushed.

Paris flopped it on the coffee table and looked back to her friend. "It's your memoirs?"

"Well, sort of."

"You're 32. What have you done worth writing about?"

Rory shifted from one foot to the other and crossed her arms. Her brow creased in not well hidden disappointment at the question. "It's not just my story, it's about my mom too, our relationship, our life. Just, read my rough draft, will you? I want to know what you think—about the writing."

"Fine, when I get the chance."

"Thank you." Rory turned serious then. She took a deep breath and looked anxious. "I actually came to tell you something. Can we sit?" She gestured to the couch and they both took a seat. But then she hesitated. Slowly, she said, "I'm pregnant."

There was a beat's pause, then Paris asked, "Was it the Wookie?"

Rory scowled. "Don't you think I'd be showing by now?"

"Not necessarily. Some women don't even know they're pregnant until they're in labor." Paris asked, "Paul, then?"

"You remember his name?" Rory asked, surprised.

"You dated him for two years."

"I know, he's just easily forgettable," she said. "He dumped me a few days ago. In a text."

There was not an answer in there. Paris switched gears entirely, "You need to make a decision soon, before Roe v. Wade is overturned."

Rory scolded, "Paris."

"What?"

"How could you say that?"

"Why would I not suggest it?"

"Because of my story, my mom and our life," Rory answered, putting a hand to her manuscript. "I wouldn't exist if my mom had considered aborting me."

"What do you mean _if_ she considered it? She was sixteen, of course she considered it."

"She did not. The only one who did was my dad's dad. And he was an ass. I only met him once, and believe me, he was horrible."

"Hold on. Anyone who suggests the options is a monster?" Paris asked. "So much for stopping the war on choice."

"I think it's really insensitive for you to assume that's what I would do."

Paris lifted her shoulders. "I wasn't assuming, I was pointing out that one of the options might be taken away," she said. "I just don't think you'll like the discomfort of pregnancy. You know it lasts nine months?"

Getting impatient, Rory said, "I know. Why is it so hard to believe that I'd keep it?"

"Well, you're unemployed and homeless. You don't even have a car. Your stuff is in boxes all over," Paris listed. "It's fine for you to couch surf like a drifter, but that isn't going to work with a baby on your hip."

"I'm not going to be couch surfing. I'll find a place to live." She gestured at her manuscript again. "And I have this that I'm working on."

"That's not a steady cash stream. You need a paying job. Is _Sandee Says_ still stalking you? It's time to accept their offer."

Rory bristled. "She had the audacity to make me sit down to _sell_ myself to her, and pitch ideas for a job she had already promised me." She added, "Not that I wanted it anyway. I can't go from _The New Yorker_ to _Sandee Says_. I have way too much self-respect for that."

"Chilton then. Take up Charleston's offer and teach. You won't make a lot, but it is a distinguished school."

She didn't like that idea either. "He said I would have to get a master's degree. And I don't want to teach anyway. If my career isn't impressive enough for him, that's his problem."

Rory was oddly resistant to facing her real life problems. Then Paris remembered, Richard surely left a windfall for his only granddaughter. Then again, she must have burned through that with all her trips overseas. Paris muttered, "What's in London?"

Rory blushed and didn't answer.

For a moment, Paris just looked at her. "Oh god, don't tell me it's Huntzberger's."

Tersely, Rory said, "Logan is engaged to a French heiress. It's all part of the Huntzberger dynastic planning." She finished the sentence with an eye roll.

"He's not the son of an Earl in 19th century Europe, so that's not a thing," Paris said flippantly. "And that's not an answer to the question."

"You didn't ask a question."

"You're right, it was more of a desperate plea." Paris shook her head. "I can't believe you've been sleeping with him. How long has that been going on?"

Rory's face turned a deeper shade of pink. "It's not _going on_ since his fiance moved in with him. I won't stoop to meeting him in a hotel, like a geisha."

"He's the father then, isn't he?"

"It doesn't matter, Paris. The father obviously isn't in the picture, one way or another. But I don't need him anyway," she said. "And thank you for your _input_ , but I already decided what I'm going to do." After a brief pause, "I'm going it alone."

Paris stared. "You're going it alone? With your aforementioned status as unemployed and homeless?"

"Yes. I'll go and demand someone give me a job, and it'll work out. I know I can do it, I've done it before and so did my mom," Rory said. "If you aren't going to be supportive, that's fine. I have Mom, and I have Luke. They'll be there for me."

"I'm your best friend, I'll support whatever you do. I'm just trying to understand why you think this is how you should do things."

"I had a talk with my—absent—father, to help shed light on our situation," Rory said. "He said things happened the way they were supposed to. It was the right thing, for it to be just the two of us. So, I know doing the same thing is exactly right."

XXX

Tristan sat at the top of the stairs, where he could hear the two women talking downstairs. Her heard something about the two being so alike, even 'giving into family pressure.' So she knew she'd never be able to rely on him. Tristan probably wasn't hearing things correctly. It sounded like Rory Gilmore was predicting the future actions of one person based on the past actions of a different, separate person.

"That's messed up," he muttered to himself, and stopped listening to that nonsense.

He couldn't believe the previous night ended the way it did. He should not have been surprised that it had been intense, and primal. He never would have guessed that would happen with Paris Geller. But now all he could think about was how to make it happen again. He woke up this morning with the foreign concept of hoping he hadn't disappointed her. It didn't help his confidence.

Though he was distracted by his thoughts, he was still fast enough to grab Elliot as he tried to pass Tristan down the stairs. "Hold on there, tiger," Tristan said, pulling the boy back. "You're mom's talking to her friend, Rory."

"Oh. Is she staying over night?"

"I don't know. Does she stay here sometimes?"

The little boy nodded. "Some of her boxes are in there," he said, pointing to one of the rooms. "Mommy said to stay out of it, but Gabby and me just wanted to see."

Tristan nodded sympathetically. "I would have looked, too."

Elliot's eyes widened. "One was full of underwear, so we didn't look anymore. We didn't want to see her underwear."

Tristan frowned. Rory kept a box of her panties at Paris's house? Sitting where the kids could find them? "You should stay out of there. Do you want to play Legos some more?"

"Yeah," Elliot said, leading Tristan back upstairs. It was only 10 minutes before Paris interrupted again. She sent Elliot away, telling him to get dressed so the nanny could make breakfast.

Tristan asked her, "Does your friend know she's the villain of her own story? Self-awareness can subvert it, a little."

Paris scowled. "You were eavesdropping?"

"Only long enough to know she's lousy with birth control," he said. "I expected her to commiserate over Hillary's devastating defeat, but it's like she didn't even know there was an election two days ago."

"She's a bit preoccupied at the moment."

"That's for sure. It's strange she's choosing to repeat history, when it produced the mess that is her life."

"Hey, that's my friend."

"To her great privilege. If she's ever looking for her underwear, your kids found it."

Paris stared, her eyes narrowing. "You really aren't interested in her?"

Tristan's head tilted as the corner of his mouth lifted. "What, so I can raise another guy's kid while she goes off to cheat on me with an ewok?"

"Wookie."

"Whatever. Or maybe I could be the next baby-daddy she decides to shut out. Any man in his right mind would run in the opposite direction."

Paris was still dubious, but returned to his point, "She called it full circle, the story of her and her mom. Something about being on a journey to end up right where they started."

"That's deep," he said flatly.

Oddly reflexive, she turned defensive, "Do you have something against single mothers? I'm one."

"You didn't plan on it. And you share custody."

"Your sister then, last night you said you had to take care of her and her kid. Doesn't that imply she's a single mother?"

"No. She lives with the guy. And parenthood wasn't an accident."

"Then why do you have to take care of them?"

He shrugged. "That's what family does." He changed the subject, "Hey, why don't you go on to work, and I'll meet you back here for dinner, and we'll talk tonight."

"That isn't necessary. I can't use your sperm now. It would be unethical."

"Okay," he said. "I didn't want to let you down, and as awesome as it is that you have a room at your work called the mastabatorium—and I'd love to see what kind of porn you provide in there—I really wasn't comfortable with the idea of my spawn out there, without knowing them."

"Don't worry about it, you're off the hook," Paris said. "So you can go on with your life, and this will just be some random occurrence."

"Wait," he said, not ready to be thrown out. "Let's go to the park."

She looked up at him like he was crazy. "What?"

"I don't have to be back in D.C. until Monday. Let's take the kids to the park, give the nanny the day off. It'll be fun."

"I have to go to work."

"Play hooky. You're the boss, you can do whatever you want."

"I can't," she said firmly. "I have appointments today. I can't cancel."

Tristan sighed in defeat. "Fine. I guess I should get out of your way then."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** I didn't forget about this story, I promise. I just stopped writing it and thinking about the plot. And started writing a companion piece to this and also an entirely different project. But it's finished now, so I just have to revise.

XXX

It was late when Paris got home from work that night. Darkness had fallen a couple hours ago. She had only just adjusted to to Daylight Savings Time. She was astounded when she saw a man sitting on her front stoop. She was even more astounded when she saw it was Tristan. It was cold out, and there he was, waiting in front of her house.

He looked up when she approached. "It's late. You missed storytime before bed," he said, pointing at the house, where her kids were inside.

"A few of my appointments ran late," she said. For some reason there were couples undeterred by the bleak future and still taking a chance on procreating. She added, "The nanny knows how to read, I thoroughly vetted her."

"I'm sure you did," Tristan said. "Do you always get home this late?"

"I'm the CEO of a major a company, I have a lot to do," Paris answered defiantly. "What are you doing here?"

"The nanny and I decided I should wait out here, so she could remain employed," he said, explaining in the literal why he was literally outside her house. "I wanted to take you out for dinner."

Paris regarded him skeptically. Surely last night was a one-off. She knew it and she thought he knew it too. "Why would you want to take me to dinner?"

"Because it's what people do on a date."

She stood up straight to her full height, five-six in heels, and crossed her arms. Shrewdly, she narrowed her eyes at him. "Who is it you're really trying to date?"

Tristan's brows knit. "You. Did I not say that part out loud? I'm sure I did."

"Let's not pretend you ever flirted with me without an ulterior motive. You were just trying to make someone else jealous." She added, "I don't need to settle for that. I'm not desperate."

His eyes shifted left and right. "There's no one else around. And I wasn't flirting or being coy. I'm asking you out, directly." He said, "I asked because I'm interested in taking you out. Only you."

She argued, "We went on a date once already, or did you forget? You had the good manners to tell me we make really awesome friends."

He had to take a moment to think back. He muttered, "Again with high school." Then, "I didn't give you a fair chance. I liked someone else." He gave it a half a beat more thought and tilted his head back. " _Oh_ ," he said, dragging the word out. He stood up to face her. "I see what you were talking about now. Give me a break. I, too, was young and stupid. Very stupid. But I'm older and wiser now."

She sighed. "You're still Tristan."

"And you're Paris."

"Right. Paris has never been Tristan's type."

"Setting the third person aside, have you looked in a mirror lately?" he asked. "Sexy and powerful happen to be just my type." His eyes slid down her figure, like last night. She had on skinny pants and heels like yesterday. "You create life, is there anything more godlike?" He muttered to himself, "Goddess-like." Then he said, "This would work better if you'd stop seeing a 17 year old when you look at me. Look." He spread his arms out for her to see him. "All grown up and fully mature—mentally, emotionally . . . physically."

Paris continued to protest, "You don't even live here. You'll be gone by Monday."

"I'm _going_ to live here," he countered. "When my commission is up later next year. I'm getting a place in Brooklyn, near my sister."

"And then what?"

"Then," he said slowly, contemplatively. "We could see more of each other."

She scowled at him, still not knowing what his game was. She didn't trust him, didn't believe he'd actually want to spend time with her. People generally didn't think of her when they were looking for a good time. And he was talking about several months down the line. It was absurd. She must be phenomenal in bed. "I don't have free time. Like you said, I create life. I'm busy helping women find fulfillment with children."

He stared at her for an uncomfortably long moment in which something changed in his facial expression. Like he reset it and wasn't amused by her. He asked, "Out of curiosity, what about your own?" It wasn't playful, he wasn't teasing. He was serious.

"My own what?"

"Children." He tilted his head back at the house. Carefully, slowly, he asked, "Do you ever spend any time with them?"

She got whiplash from his change of subject. She glowered at him. "Yes I spend time with them." She forgot her distrust in him. Now she was pissed.

"When?" he asked. "Do you ever talk to them? I did, this morning, and it sounds like you're at work sun up to sundown." His face held an expression he'd never directed at her. It was one of disappointment.

"When and how I spend time with my kids is none of your business. And you shouldn't be talking to them," she said. "You don't know anything."

"I know I've only seen a little, but I'm surprised by you," he said. "I'm going to be honest, I think all that full circle stuff is bullshit. So I'm really surprised to see you're doing it too."

She glared at him. "I'm doing _what_?"

"Full circling," he said. "You're not around for your kids, just like your parents weren't there for you."

There was dead silence for a long moment. "It is not at all the same," she finally said. She was so mad she didn't even notice the cool breeze that rustled the leaves.

"How so?" he challenged. "Because you saw them for almost five minutes this morning?"

Sarcastically, she invoked Hillary, "Well I guess I could stay home and bake cookies and have tea. But I think I can make better use of my time and knowledge."

"Hey, I know the modern day grande dame unapologetically leaves the kids with the nanny and goes to work, but it looks like your kids never see you."

Was this guy serious? "I don't care what it looks like to you," she said. "You can't just waltz back into my life and pass judgment in one day. You don't know anything."

"I was minding my own business, _you're_ the one who waltzed in on me," he argued. "I vividly remember a little girl who used to beg her parents to come to school functions—one, any, she wasn't picky." He addressed her directly, "No matter how much your mom criticized you or how many times in the past they weren't there, you were always hopeful that _this time_ they would be there for you," he said. "One of them, for anything."

At first Paris felt embarrassed for having been exposed in that way, vulnerable in front of people, in front of him. She pushed it away. "Yeah, well, they never did show up, not even for my graduations," she said, agreeing with him. "It was Nanny who was there." She added, "It's not like things were different for you and your parents."

Confusion crossed his face. "We're not talking about my parents," he said. "But sure, you're right. They weren't always there. So when I have kids, I'll improve on their weak spots, not mimic them."

She bristled at the accusation he kept coming back to. "I am not mimicking my parents."

He was not convinced. "If this is what your regular routine looks like, I think you're kids are going to be the same way—begging you for your time and presence. What are you going to tell them? That you're too busy with work?" Tristan asked, giving her an imploring look. He shook his head, and the all too familiar feeling of disappointment set in. "I don't know, maybe it makes sense to you, but I don't understand." His shoulders dropped an inch, backing off from the fight. "I should go."

She watched him walk away without a quick comeback. She didn't have an excuse for herself. Still, she couldn't let him have the last word. "It's not on purpose," she yelled lamely, hearing the hollow excuse for what it was.

Tristan didn't turn back as he walked away.

XXX

Paris was sitting with the kids at the table eating breakfast the next morning. It wasn't out of the ordinary, it was something they did all the time, she told herself. She spent plenty of time with her kids, there was no need to keep a tally.

He was wrong, of course. She wasn't anything like her parents. Sure, she worked a lot, but her kids understood how important she was at her company. It was _her_ company after all. And she did see them every morning before leaving for work. She was at home with them every day. Of course, they were asleep for nine or ten hours when they were all there together. But that worked out well, because she was there if they woke up scared from nightmares. So it was all good. She was not her parents, _they_ would stay away from home for weeks and weeks at a time, without so much as sending a postcard.

And who was Tristan Dugray to tell her how to be a mother? Mothers had enough criticism as it was. She didn't need him piling on. She was perfectly capable of managing her work-life balance.

Everything was _fine_.

She was reading the newspaper when the nanny came in from the kitchen, placing a bowl in front of Gabrielle.

"I don't want oatmeal, make me something else, _now_ ," the little girl said with a scowl, except she didn't say it so much as she demanded it, rather unkindly.

Paris gasped as her head whipped in the direction of her daughter. "Gabrielle." She glanced at the nanny. "I'm sorry, can you give us a minute?"

After the woman left the room, Paris asked, "Why would you talk to Nanny like that?"

Wide eyed and guilty, the little girl said, "That's how you talk to her sometimes."

Elliot nodded from his seat next to his sister. "I heard you."

It was one of those rare moments in Paris's life that surprised her speechless. They were watching her? What other bad habits had she been exposing them to without realizing it?

When she found her voice, she willed herself to gently say, "Nanny takes care of you because I can't be here all the time, you know Mommy works. So, you shou— _we_ should all be nice to Nanny, okay?" She glanced to each kid and both nodded dutifully. "Now I have to get to work." She quickly added, "But I'll be back in time to read your bedtime story."

Elliot looked at her with a raised brow of interest. Or maybe it was disbelief. "Really?"

"Yes," she promised. Both children looked pleasantly surprised to hear she'd be back before they went to bed, it made her feel good. She asked Gabrielle, "What do you want for breakfast?"

"Cereal," the girl answered.

Paris went to the kitchen for a clean bowl and poured cereal and milk into it. When she brought it out, she sat it in front of her daughter. She gave each of her children a hug and told them she loved them before she left. That was something she _knew_ her parents never did before they left. She would be back tonight. She had to. She promised.

XXX

Paris hurried up the stairs—the third flight—and rushed down the hall toward the kids' bedrooms. When the nanny came out of Gabrielle's room, quietly shutting the door behind her, she asked, "What are you doing?"

Surprised to see her employer, the nanny answered, "Putting Gabrielle to bed."

"Why?"

The woman looked at Paris strangely. "Because you were very clear about how much sleep they need according to their age and what time they needed to be in bed. Remember the chart you made me memorize?" she asked pointedly.

"Yes I remember. But I wanted to read them their bedtime story. I promised them." She tapped her watch. "And I made it in time."

Without much sympathy, the woman said, "Storytime has to be figured into the evening routine accordingly, so they're asleep by their bedtime, not a half hour later. Do the math." She was quoting Paris, as they both knew. Paris was suddenly aware of how condescending she had probably made the demand.

She swallowed her pride and nodded once. "You're right, you were just doing what I asked. I'm too late."

Softening slightly, the nanny said, "There's always tomorrow night."

A lot of people in the world disappointed Paris. They didn't live up to her high expectations. It would be less exhausting to just lower her standards for other people. But she never could. The same went for herself. No matter how hard she tried in life, how hard she strove for success, in the end the person she was most disappointed with stared back at her when she looked in the mirror.

"Right, tomorrow."

XXX

She didn't pack her schedule on Saturday like she normally did. She only took a few appointments. Three couples, that was it. It would only take two hours, two and a half at the most. She was going to be home by 10am. She could still have breakfast with Gabrielle and Elliot, maybe even watch a few morning cartoons—which she predicted would be terrible and mindless—but all kids watched cartoons on Saturday morning, it was a tradition. She could bear to watch a few with them. They wouldn't even notice she'd been gone.

But she was late again. She missed breakfast. The nanny took care of it before Paris made it home. She failed her kids again, just like all the times her parents failed her. She wasn't there for them. What was worse was, she didn't even realize how late she was until she heard her email alert ding at her while she was still at work. It was from Tristan. He must have found her email address on her company website.

 _I'm taking my niece to the park in Brooklyn Heights after lunch, if you and the kids wanted to join us._

She checked the time. Lunch? It was close to noon. She was running two hours behind schedule. It was that second couple. The husband kept waffling back and forth between IVF and surrogacy. It took all of Paris's strength to be patient with him, explaining how each would work.

She flushed with shame, at being caught at work after arguing with Tristan about spending time with her kids. _Don't let him bother you. Don't let him bother you. He doesn't know you._

The kids would like the park. She couldn't say for sure, since she never took them, but _kids_ in general liked parks, and Gabrielle and Elliot were kids. It was fair to assume they'd be interested in the idea. And it would be good for them to run around in the fresh air.

 _We were already planning to go to a park in Manhattan after lunch, but I guess we could meet you in Brooklyn._ She bluffed unflinchingly and quickly pressed send before she could change her mind.

The kids were surprised when she came home so 'early.' They didn't know she had aimed for two hours earlier. She felt a little guilty at their surprised reaction, their expectations for her must be low. But the guilt faded away at their excitement about going to the park.

"So where have you been stationed?" Paris asked Tristan when they were at the park, sitting on a bench overlooking the playground where kids were running around joyfully. Gabrielle and Elliot hadn't minded the work that went into bundling up in coats and gloves. The chance to get out with other kids was worth the trouble.

"Italy first, then California. Japan for seven months, then Guam, and I'm finishing up in Washington D.C.," he answered, ticking off a list.

"Any favorites?"

"Well, I requested California. I was out there for law school when Stella was born, so it was cool to go back when she was a little older. So she knew me even though I wasn't around for her whole life."

Paris looked out at the girl in question. Stella did not inherit the blond hair of the Dugray siblings and instead had dark brown hair. Paris didn't know Tristan cared so much about family. But he seemed to gravitate to his sister wherever she went. She looked out to the playground where Elliot was chasing Gabrielle around the big colorful jungle gym, the girl smiling and giggling as she bobbed and weaved just out of his reach. At least they had each other, Paris thought, when she was too busy doing other, more important things.

"Hey Tristan, watch!" Stella, called out from one of bars on the jungle gym, smiling widely. She swung her body backward, flipping around the bar and ended where she'd started. She grinned triumphantly over at her uncle.

Paris tried that gymnastic move once in grade school, when all the other girls were doing it. She didn't make it all the way around and landed on her butt, knocking the wind out of her. It took her a few minutes to catch her breath and her tail bone hurt for days. She ruled out gymnastics as a viable extra-curricular activity.

"Cool," he said. "Simone Biles better watch out for you." He said it dryly, and Stella stuck her tongue out at his teasing. To Paris, he said, "She's starting to understand sarcasm. It's fun for now, until she gets mean."

"Why didn't your sister ever marry Stella's dad, if they're together?"

Tristan looked out at the kids on the playground. "Because he's afraid of marriage and she's afraid of divorce." He turned to look at Paris. "So they skipped both as a compromise."

"But they weren't afraid to complicate things by sharing a kid?"

He just shrugged. "I don't know their life."

Neither did Paris, but she could still tell they were idiots. Then again, she was the one who was divorced, so what did she know?

After a few minutes of quiet, Tristan asked, "Are you happy?"

She looked at him in surprise. "What?"

"Are you happy?"

"Why wouldn't I be happy?" she asked. "I'm extremely successful." The failed marriage notwithstanding. Though it was fair to argue that the marriage stopped making her happy. But that was taken care of now.

"You were a successful student, but I can't say you were ever very happy. It's like you wouldn't let yourself be happy until you got to Harvard," Tristan said. "And then you probably weren't happy until you made it to grad school, and on and on. I get it, you're a master at delayed gratification." He said, "So you've made it. Are you finally happy?"

She never really stopped to think about it. Wasn't being successful and accomplished the same thing as being happy? It had to be.

He went on, "I just ask because I don't know anyone else who deserves a happy ending more than you."

"Happy endings are for suckers," Paris quipped. There were no happy endings, life just kept going. And then you die. The movies and fairy tales always ended with the hero and heroin triumphant, as though they were in the clear, out of the woods. Wrong. The wedding was the beginning, not the end. Life went on and people changed in ways neither could have foreseen. It happened.

Tristan smirked a little as his gaze shifted from her to the kids playing, like she gave the exact answer he'd predict. "Still," he said. "Outside of career success, I hope you're happy with your life."

They continued to supervise the kids for a couple more hours, until Tristan judged it time to head home. He called for his niece, "Stella Biles, come on, it's time to go."

When the girl came over, she said, "That sounded like my name."

He nodded in agreement. "It rhymes. It's not alliterative though." He turned back to Paris. "I'll see you later."

She couldn't help but ask, "How much later?"

He came back a step, surprised. "Uh, I'm not sure, to be honest. But I'll be back sooner or later." He added, "Given my last disappearance of 15 years, later is a relative term."

"Good," she said briskly, like she didn't care all that much. She nodded to Stella and said, "She seems to like that you're here."

"Mm," he said with a nod, the corner of his mouth turned up, like he didn't believe she was really speaking on Stella's behalf. But he played along, "Oh, yeah, she'll be begging me to come back before too long."

Paris smiled a little, probably giving herself away.

He looked almost hesitant, calculating the risk of what he was about to say before going for it, "Do you think you'll be hungry whenever that future day arrives?"

She answered, "There's a good chance I'll have worked up an appetite by then."

He gave her a half smile and nod of satisfaction before stearing his niece by the shoulders toward the park entrance.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** There's a guest appearance in the last scene of this chapter, veering a little to the left. It's a peek into the companion fic I'm working on, and self-indulgently dissects a scene the writers liked so much they wrote it twice.

 **Chapter 4**

In what Paris considered great self-discipline, she left work at 4:00 on Thursday night and brought some paperwork home. She let the nanny leave for the day, reassuring the woman she could take care of the kids for the rest of the evening. Now, she rubbed her temples and closed her eyes, trying for patience. She thought about all the floors in this house and questioned whether they all had to be on the same floor for it to count as quality time.

Gabrielle and Elliot were playing, or arguing, that was, and for the life of her Paris had no idea what they are arguing about.

"You did _too_."

"I did _not_!"

"Yes you did!"

Back and forth they went, with no resolution in sight. They were incapable of solving problems together. It was maddening. Paris couldn't take another minute of their petty bickering, which got louder and louder for no reason.

"Lower your voices, please," she said sternly.

She could say it however she wanted, and as many times as she could, it made no difference. They didn't listen to her. She told them to pick up their toys, they ignored her. She asked them to brush their teeth in the evening, they acted like they couldn't hear her. When she was at home with them, she might as well talk to a wall. Was this how they behaved when they were with the nanny? Paris was sure they didn't. She imagined two wonderful children who respected the nanny and followed every directive she gave. They liked her better, she knew. The woman needed a raise.

"He took my toy," Gabrielle complained.

"I did not," Elliot disputed.

Why did they whine so much? They were _always_ whining. Paris was sure she didn't sound like that when she was a child. She felt a little guilty for being so annoyed with her kids, but there was nothing she could do about it. They were not always cute.

Her phone pinged and she checked the message. _Everyone here is freaking out. You should come down for the women's march. Bring the kids_.

It was Tristan, referring to the presidential inauguration taking place the next day. She glanced at the aforementioned kids, who were still shooting uninspired insults at each other. She wasn't travelling any distance in close quarters with these two. _I can't drop everything and pack up two kids for a day trip_. She thought it best to leave out her real thoughts and instead rejected his suggestion on grounds of spontaneity.

 _How about New York?_

She responded, _What about it?_

 _I'll come to you._

She considered it a moment and could admit to herself that she didn't hate the idea of seeing him. _I don't want you to go out of your way._

 _I already bought a train ticket._

She allowed herself a half smile at his willingness to come here. She wondered how far she could push it. _Can I invite Rory?_

It took an extra couple minutes before he responded. _Fine._

She did take pleasure in his hesitance. Historically, her friend was far more coveted by men. It was like they were beholden to her. And here was Tristan Dugray, no longer enchanted and coming to see Paris.

For a second she forgot to be annoyed by her children.

XXX

"I thought the morning sickness was the worst part—which by the way, isn't even an accurate name for it. It's more like, any time of the day sickness," Rory said as they walked down the street, among thousands of their fellow women, the tall buildings of Manhattan towering over them. "I keep getting headaches and indigestion," she complained. "Oh, and the acne. For years I had great skin. All through middle school and high school, my face was clear. Now all of a sudden I can't scrub my face enough."

Adolescence without the dreaded side effects of puberty, must be nice, Paris thought. "I warned you pregnancy wouldn't be fun."

"I knew it wouldn't be. I just wasn't expecting all of this, and it's all happening at once—one thing after another—and I have no control over any of it." She said, "I'm not complaining or anything, I'm sure it'll get easier."

Paris frowned. Easier? When, after the kid was born? That was wrong, very wrong.

"I should probably get some maternity pants soon. I can barely fit in mine. I'm down to wearing yoga pants every day." She was only just barely starting to show.

"I still have some stored away, if you want to borrow them," Paris offered, assuming her still unemployed friend was as broke as ever. She refrained from mentioning it though, not wanting to annoy Rory today after twisting her arm to come out.

"That would be great, thanks."

Tristan, who was walking next to Paris and taking it all in, had gone quiet. He didn't pretend to be interested in Rory's diatribe. Without a word or passing glance, he stepped ahead to take Gabrielle and Elliot each by the hand and quickened their pace, putting a few people between them and Paris and Rory.

Rory eyed him and turned to Paris. "So what's going on there?"

"Where?"

"You and Tristan. What happened to just a drunken one-night stand?" Rory asked.

Paris defensively asked, "Can't I have a rebound? You really aren't one to judge."

"What does that mean?" Rory asked, her brows furrowed in utmost confusion and defiance.

Paris barely suppressed an eye roll. "I've been there for every one of your relationships. You've switched off from one guy to the next, and then back again."

"I did not," Rory protested. "I've never had a rebound relationship."

"Okay, the next was always waiting in the wings, then." Paris looked ahead, her gaze falling on Tristan. "The kids like him." He was good with them, always willing to get down on the floor to play with them. He reverted back to child-like ways with relative ease. When given the option, the kids never turned down meeting Tristan and Stella in the park when he was in town some weekends. Gabby and Elliott loved begging him to push them on the merry-go-round. Paris was left to watch, warning Tristan he'd have to clean the mess if anyone threw up.

As promised, he was apartment hunting in Brooklyn and had a job lined up, and would be moving permanently in the fall.

"Who do they think he is?" Rory asked. "What do you tell them?"

"I tell them he's a friend. That's all they need to know."

"But do you think it's a good idea for them to get attached to him, especially if he's just a rebound?" Rory asked. "My mom always had strict boundaries with guys she dated. She never let it affect my life."

Paris's brows wrinkled in skepticism. "Like when she made out with Mr. Medina at school in the middle of the day and everyone knew within two minutes?"

"That was because _you_ told everyone."

Paris shrugged nonchalantly. "Your mom made choices about how to handle her relationships and her kid. I'll make my own choices."

They walked in silence for a few minutes, taking in the hordes of women, and some men, around them. Then Rory voiced another concern, "I'm not saying there's anything wrong with a rebound relationship, and if your kids think he's just a friend, that's fine. But what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Well, Tristan isn't just some random guy you found off the streets. You had a crush on him for years."

Paris rolled her eyes. "That was a long time ago. What's your point?"

"Do you think you should be involved with someone you used to be infatuated with? I mean, you probably romanticized what it would be like to be with him," Rory reasoned. "Are you going to be okay when it's over? Won't you just be more crushed?"

"I was young, I was stupid," Paris said, sticking to her justification. "I already made the transition from thinking he's perfect to knowing he isn't. I'm not wearing rose tinted glasses here. He has his life and I have mine. Whenever we get to the point that the fling is over, we'll both go on with our lives. No harm, no foul."

"If you say so," Rory said, still skeptical. She looked to the drugstore they were passing. "Oh, is it alright if I stop to use the restroom? I have to go all the time."

"Go ahead, we'll wait." Paris called for Tristan and the kids to stop. When they stepped over to the sidewalk next to her, she asked, "Why did you get ahead of us?"

"I didn't want to listen to her whining, so I'm pretty sure your kids didn't want to hear it either," he said.

"Pregnancy is uncomfortable," she defended. "She's just adjusting to her changing body. You don't know what it's like."

Tristan held his hands up in surrender. He reached in his pocket to pull out his phone. He grinned and showed Paris what amused him. It was his niece in one of those pink hats, along with her coat, scarf, and gloves. In the first picture she was smiling for the camera, but in the next she looked less happy, her arms crossed in a pout.

"She's not used to East Coast winters yet," Tristan explained. "Living in California long enough thins your blood."

Paris asked, "Are they ahead of us or behind?"

His brows furrowed slightly and he shook his head. "They flew down to Washington."

She stared at him for a moment. "Why did you come here if they were going to you?"

He shrugged like it was nothing. "Because you asked for a change of location."

"If your sister was going to visit you, you should have stayed there."

"I wanted march with you and you were here. So I came here. It's fine."

"But your sister—"

"Is a big girl," he interrupted. "She can find herself around DC without me." Then he changed the subject to ask the kids, "Do you know why we're marching today?"

Elliot pumped both his fists in the air enthusiastically. "For women!"

"Yeah," Gabrielle agreed, nodding. "And girls."

Paris grinned, filling with a warm feeling of pride for them. "That's right."

Tristan turned back to Paris. "Since the day is all about women, is now a good time for you to stop calling your surrogates breeders?"

XXX

Tristan had his head in the refrigerator, searching for a snack, or perhaps some leftovers of whatever his sister's family had for dinner that week. He opened the other door to peer in the freezer. Ice cream would do. He found a carton of chocolate behind a bag of peas and pulled it out. When he stood straight and closed the freezer door, he inhaled sharply in surprise at Jason Stiles standing there. "You scared me."

"I live here," he said sardonically. "Can I help you?"

Tristan carefully pulled off the top of the carton. "I could use a spoon."

Jason gave him a withering stare before turning to the drawer to retrieve one.

Tristan started digging into the ice cream. "Did the girls make it back okay?"

The older man nodded. "I can't believe you bailed on them at the last minute."

Tristan lifted his shoulders. "Paris couldn't make it to DC, so I came up here. Winnie wasn't mad." At least, his sister had sounded understanding when he talked to her.

"That Paris, she's . . . really something," Jason said. Tristan introduced Paris to his sister and Jason another time he was in the city. Paris had passed the couple her business card, encouraging them to make an appointment if they ever wanted more kids since Jason's sperm were probably 'swimming in circles by now.'

"Winnie wasn't mad, she was disappointed," Jason said. "Stella was mad and disappointed."

"I'll make it up to Her Highness tomorrow," Tristan said. "If it's any consolation, Paris invited her friend that I can barely stand. I can't believe I used to like her."

"Like who?" a female voice asked, walking in from the shadows of the darkened apartment. They were joined by Tristan's sister.

"Paris's friend, Rory Gilmore," Tristan answered.

Winnie mouthed _Gilmore_ and her eyes flickered to Jason for a second. "Well, you've always had questionable taste in women."

"The weird part is I thought I was evolving when I liked Rory. Turns out, she's a bigger disaster than all the other girls I dated."

"Yikes," Winnie said, grabbing a spoon from the drawer. She dug into the ice cream. She asked, "Any relation to Lorelai Gilmore?"

Tristan nodded, remembering his old classmate's first day of Chilton. "That's her real name."

At the same time, Jason said, "That's her mother."

Tristan said, "Isn't she named after her mom?"

Jason shook his head. "I have no idea. I do know Richard's mother was a Lorelai, and that woman was terrifying. She died when I was in business with him."

"Did you go to the funeral to 'cheer Lorelai up?'" she asked sarcastically.

Eyeing Winnie, Jason said, "No. But I did make an inappropriate joke to one of Richard's cousins at the wake—obviously not the funeral. I didn't hit on anyone, but it was in poor taste, as is my wont in emotionally charged situations."

Tristan slowly looked from Jason to his sister. The former was hesitant, the latter was warily unamused. Casually, he asked, "What's up?"

Winnie forcefully said, "He's an idiot who hits on women at funerals!"

Jason protested, "Not women, plural. It happened _one_ time."

Her gaze lingered on him contemptuously. "Anyway." She turned back to her brother. "You liked the daughter?"

"Yeah, tried to date her," Tristan said. "Unsuccessfully. There was a particularly embarrassing incident in high school."

"Do tell," Winnie said, taking another spoonful of ice cream.

"I got these stupid concert tickets and tried to get her to go with me. I thought she'd be willing to go out with me," Tristan said. "She was single. And her ex-boyfriend, was, well . . . "

"What?"

"He was from her podunk town."

"So?"

"So, I could give her things, such as expensive concert tickets. He was a stock boy at the market," Tristan said sheepishly. "It didn't make sense for him to be a serious rival."

"Hmm, the arrogance," Winnie said, mockingly pointed as she shook her head, her eyes on Jason. "Don't you think?"

Jason turned to get a spoon and joined them in digging a hole in the ice cream. "Maybe, maybe not."

"Well don't worry, I got my comeuppance," Tristan said. "The stock boy showed up. He was pissed to see her with me. So she emphatically reassured him we weren't together. Then I had a front row seat to their big kiss."

Smiling widely, Winnie she pointed at Jason. "The exact same thing happened to him," she said brightly.

"What?" Jason asked. "No. My pursuit was successful, she went out with me . . . after a conflict with her mom."

"No, no, not that," Winnie said dismissively. "When you tried to get her back, what happened?"

He explained, "She hooked up with Duke. It was like Ross and Rachel, to put it in terms you'll understand." He added, "They went from arguing about whether or not I was her boyfriend to forgetting I was still there in zero to 60."

Tristan slowly nodded in agreement. "Yeah. Rory was so repelled by me that I think I drove her to the other guy."

Jason frowned in thought. "Hmm." He did not disagree. "Still, I'm sure it wasn't the same." He gestured between himself and Tristan. "We're very different."

Tristan nodded in agreement. "I'm really cool, he's extremely weird."

Jason glanced at him unappreciatively. "I was going to say there's a big difference. I was the ex-boyfriend trying to get the girl back." He pointed his spoon at Tristan. "He was butting in. He's the Duke of his story."

Tristan jabbed his finger in Jason's direction. "That's true. Totally different. Did you steal her books?"

Jason frowned. "Steal her—what? No." He looked at Tristan like he was stupid. "What is wrong with you?" He shook his head. "Did a naked guy come shrieking by?"

"Naked guy?"

"We're getting off track," Winnie said. "In an attempt to win over a girl, you annoyed her into the arms of another guy?"

Jason and Tristan glanced at each other. "Yes."

"A guy who doesn't use summer as a verb and therefore not perceived as your equal?"

Muttering this time, "Yes."

"Spooky. And then they kissed?"

"Right." Jason added, "I think there were some romantic gestures exchanged in the run-up, which explains the angst over my presence. It may have sent a mixed message."

Tristan squinted his eyes in thought. "Yeah," he said slowly. "I think I forced them to communicate."

Jason nodded.

"Good thing you guys were there to move things along," Winnie said, enjoying her analysis too much. "And then you slunk off as the loser, for a summer of wallowing in self-pity." When Tristan and Jason silently shared a look, she burst out laughing. "Cheer up, you're _my_ losers." She tossed her spoon in the sink and left them in the kitchen, still cackling as she disappeared.

"Your sister is crazy."

"You live with her." Tristan shook his head. "She's wrong though. I can't speak for the mother, but if the daughter is any indication, we came out winners."

"I know," Jason said. "That's what Winnie and Digger spell."

"It also spells Dinner."

"No, Winner. Our names spell Winner."

"Okay, but those aren't your real names. And I didn't think you liked your nickname."

Impatient, Jason said, "I know, I don't. Just, nevermind."

After a moment of thought, Tristan said, "It isn't as weird as you might think though. It's not us, it's them. Rory is convinced she's reliving her mother's life, so this really fits that narrative."

Jason shook his head. "You can always choose not to be your parent."

Tristan thought about how Paris was making a real effort with her kids, spending a little more time with them instead of all her time at the office. He was confident she'd keep it up, because Paris Gellar didn't push anyone harder than she pushed Paris Gellar.

He nodded slowly. "Yes you can."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N** : This chapter might need a trigger warning. For deserved self-criticism of this fic, see my LJ.

Paris eyed the white cloth covering the table in her sunroom. She made sure each place setting had a cup and saucer for coffee and all the necessary utensils. Finding everything up to snuff, she went to check on things in the kitchen. Tristan wanted to catch up with old friends. Paris reminded him that she didn't see much of Madeline and Louise these days, but he was adamant that was all the more reason they get together to catch up. They hadn't seen each other in ages.

Paris reminded him that if she invited Madeline and Louise over, they would want to see Rory. The threesome's relationship with the small town girl had evolved after he left. It would only be fair that she get to catch up with them too. He relented, but warned her the reunion would be hijacked by Rory's drama.

It was still late winter and therefore too cold to have an outdoor gathering. So she set up the sunroom for a midday brunch and arranged for a caterer. Tristan arrived early to help set up. She wondered if he thought they were joint hosting this swaray. The she stopped to wonder if _she_ thought they were joint hosting. She shook the idea from her head. Her house, her party.

Louise arrived just behind Madeline, both right on time. Louise had on leggings and boots with a long top and Madeline in a dress and cardigan. They smiled broadly as they took turns giving their old friend a hug.

Not long thereafter, Rory joined them. The girls commenced another round of hugs. "Oh my god," Louise said, holding Rory at arm length to get a look at her. She was wearing a long fitted sweater that didn't hide the gentle bump of her belly. "Are you pregnant?"

"It would seem so," Rory admitted. She had decided she didn't care if their old classmates knew she was going to be a unwed mother. She wasn't ashamed. Paris wondered why Rory thought of it as though they were in another era. It was 2017 and the stigma had largely worn off. She didn't seem to be as bothered about any stigma for being someone's mistress.

They agreed to divert the conversation if Madeline and Louise tried to pry into the finer details.

"It's so great to get together, just us girls," Madeline said, a broad grin on her face as they moved to the sunroom at the back of the house.

Skeptically, Rory asked, " _Is_ it just us girls though?"

"Actually," Paris trailed off, looking to her two old friends. "There's one more."

Louise looked around at the four of them, frowning in thought, as though she'd forgotten someone

As if he was listening for his cue from the next room, Tristan walked in.

Louise's jaw dropped and her eyes widened.

At her reaction, Madeline followed her friend's gaze. She inhaled in surprise. There were five full seconds where the they sat in stunned silence. Finally, "Tristan?"

"Your eyes don't deceive you."

Both girls squealed and rushed over to him to clobber him with hugs. "Oh my god, I can't believe you're here." To Paris, Louise asked, "You had him hidden away?"

Paris lifted her shoulders. "He wanted it to be a surprise."

They turned back to Tristan. "We've never been more surprised. But what are you doing here, really?"

"I haven't seen you two in years. I thought it would be fun to get the whole gang together," he explained as they sat down at the prepared table.

Louise leaned in to focus her intense gaze on Tristan. "What have _you_ been up to? You disappeared off the face of the planet."

"Yeah, no one's heard from you since high school," Madeline added.

Tristan indulged them with the details of his whereabouts since military school. California for school, followed by a stint in the Navy JAG Corps with plans to practice environmental law in New York.

"That is not what I ever would have imagined you doing," Louise said.

He shrugged and asked who wanted a drink. They all chimed in, and he went to pour mimosas. He came back a few minutes later with the beverages and reclaimed his seat.

Hoping for something more juicy, Louise turned to Rory. " _You've_ certainly been busy since we last saw you."

Rory panicked for a second, assuming she was talking about her condition. She played it cool, "You mean my article in _The New Yorker_? I didn't think you would have heard about it."

Louise shook her head dismissively. "No. You stole a yacht back in college? Who knew you had such a rebellious streak?"

Rory's mouth opened and then closed, dumbfounded. "You heard about the yacht?"

"It was on Rebecca Thurston's blog," Louise said matter-of-factly, as though it was common knowledge. "Trust me, when I read it, I had huge doubts that 'Rory Gilmore Sex Boat' was about you, especially when it said your partner in crime was Logan Huntzberger."

"Ooh, I read his wedding announcement in the newspaper," Madeline said eagerly. "It sounded so romantic. Did you get to go?"

Tristan silently shared a look with Paris, giving her an 'I told you so' look. She ignored him.

Rory's eyes clouded, not wanting to hear about Logan's nuptials to another woman. "Uh, no," she said uneasily. "We aren't close anymore."

"But you used be, close?" Louise asked.

"Well, we dated, actually."

Louise stared. " _You_ dated Logan Huntzberger?"

"Is that really so surprising?"

"Extremely," Madeline answered.

Paris cut in to save her, "She came to her senses and dumped him though. So there's really no there, there."

Rory shot her a thankful glance. "Right. Did you have any news you wanted to share, Paris?" she asked pointedly.

"As a matter of fact, I'm dating someone."

Tristan glanced from Madeline to Louise, gauging for a reaction.

"A post-divorce rebound?" Louise asked. "Good for you. You deserve some good meaningless sex."

Paris frowned, Tristan gave a tight grim smile.

Assuming Paris wouldn't be dating anyone gossip-worthy, Louise returned to her prior inquisition. She asked Tristan, "Does it irk you a little, that Rory dated a rich playboy after she rejected you?"

He lifted his shoulders and dropped them. "No. Tastes change."

With a scowl of distaste, Paris added, "Logan and Tristan are nothing alike anyway."

Louise arched a brow at her in doubt.

Madeline, ever cheerful, cut in, "Remember when you almost fought her boyfriend at the dance?"

Tristan rubbed the back of his neck uneasily. "Uh, vaguely."

"God he was gorgeous," Louise said. "And I'm sorry, but he definitely could have taken you."

This time neither Tristan nor Rory wanted to linger on this topic. He asked Louise, "So I hear you have a whole gang of kids? Let's talk about that."

She smiled proudly as she pulled out her phone and tapped on her pictures app. "Some days I'm not sure if it was the best or worst decision I ever made." Tristan leaned in to watch the slideshow of the three toddlers.

Strangely, that was the most comforted Paris felt about something Louise said.

"Oliver and Jacob are energetic, but Lily does laps around them. I'm seriously worried I won't be able to get her into the same preschool as the boys. I'll still get a bonus as long as I get them all enrolled, but Daniel upped the stakes to get them all in the same school."

"Bonus?" Rory asked.

"Yeah," Louise said. "My husband pays me a bonus when I keep the household within budget and meet certain goals with the kids." She smiled indulgently. "I _will_ get the kids in the same preschool, I just have to butter up a few board members. And then I'm going to Aruba."

"What about said children?" Rory asked, slightly amused, but judgy.

"We have a nanny. They'll survive a few days without Mommy."

Rory's eyes shifted to the side, clearly unimpressed.

"I don't know how she does it," Madeline said with a shake of her head. "I can only just manage one, and that's with the help of a nanny."

Tristan asked, "You have a kid?"

"Well, step-kid, Ava. She's six. My husband is a widower. Very tragic."

"How do you get along with her?"

"Great, she's such a good kid. She really didn't like me at first, and I was apprehensive about kids. But after the wedding Marcus was away on business a lot and Ava and I bonded."

"Good for you," Tristan said encouragingly.

Madeline sat forward with a grin. "We should get the kids together for a playdate."

"Oh, good idea," Louise said. She turned to Rory again. "So you're not wearing a ring. Did Paris help you conceive too? She's a miracle worker."

"Uh, no, I actually did it the old fashioned way," Rory said, taking a sip of water. "The father and I ended things though, so I'm going it alone."

"Like mother, like daughter, huh?" Louise observed.

Rory proudly said, "Yes, exactly."

XXX

Tristan carefully set the glasses on the kitchen counter and went to the fridge for the orange juice and champagne for refills. When he spun back around, he was startled at the door being pushed open. Rory came in and sighed heavily.

She glanced over at him. "I needed a break. I'm happy to see Madeline and Louise, but they just remembered when Louise thought she was psychic in college."

"So?"

"So she 'predicted' Dean's first marriage wouldn't work because of me."

"Ah," Tristan said without looking away from the glass he was pouring. He didn't ask.

A bit defensively, she said, "They were too young to be married. We—she—it doesn't even matter now."

"Okay."

Frustrated, Rory said, "I know it's probably asking too much, but couldn't they be more interested in my career?"

"You don't really have one right now."

She shot him a scowl. "I'm writing a book. And I had a piece published in _The New Yorker_. They could argue about whether I should have a Pulitzer."

Tristan stopped to lift his eyes to Rory's. "Do _you_ think you should have Pulitzer?" He shook his head. "You know interpersonal relationships have always been their forte." He went back to the refills, carefully pouring alcohol into each glass. "They're probably just surprised your life turned out to be the most . . . sordid."

Indignant, she repeated, "Sordid?"

He stopped pouring to look at her again. His eyes slid from her stomach back to her face. "Sordid." He moved on to the orange juice.

"Okay, I've had enough of this," Rory said with her hands on her hips. "What is your problem with me? Why do you still hate me?"

She would not like to know he found her self-aggrandizing and entitled, with definite hints of moral bankruptcy. He lifted a brow. "Still?"

"Yes. Just like in high school, you have some problem with me."

Tristan rubbed the bridge of his nose, briefly closing his eyes. "Okay, that was a really long time ago, and I did not hate you. Contrary to what you believe, I li—," he stopped himself and shook his head. It didn't matter. "I didn't hate you, okay?" He added, "I used to be an idiot, in a number of ways. For example, I didn't see what was right in front of me."

"Paris," she said to clarify, almost incredulous.

"Yes." He took a chance and added, "Hopefully you see her in front of you, too."

"What are you talking about?"

He put the juice and champagne back in the refrigerator and turned back around. "To her, you're her best friend. But for you, she's just a friend of convenience."

She glowered at him. "Excuse me?"

"She's only good enough when you need something."

She stared at him with a set jaw and crossed arms, giving him a hard stare. She lifted her finger to point and opened her mouth to argue, but then her face twisted and her lifted hand went to her stomach..

"Are you okay?" he asked, stepping around the counter.

"No, something doesn't feel right."

He went to the door to call for Paris, who swept in and asked a few questions. With a glance back to Tristan, she authoritatively said they were going to the hospital.

XXX

"Did you see that article in the _New York Times_ about that giant crack in Antarctica?" Tristan asked, pulling out his phone to show them a picture like they had with their kids. He explained that it wasn't directly because of climate change, and then he took it upon himself to go into great detail about what effects climate change _were_ having.

By the time he finished, Louise's eyes were glazed over. "Oh my god, Tristan Dugray is boring. What a sad day."

Ruefully, he put his phone in his back pocket. He was sitting at the table with Madeline and Louise, having stayed to keep them entertained a while longer. He brought out the last of the snacks, and neither of the two girls questioned why he'd taken over as host or knew his way around Paris's house. They'd polished off the sandwiches and were munching on the snacks.

"I hope Rory's okay," Madeline said.

"She's in good hands," Tristan said reassuringly.

"It's cool she's going to raise her kid on her own. I bet they'll be best friends, just like her and her mom."

Louise once again leaned in closer, ever shrewd. "I wonder who she was dating last. He must be the father."

He shrugged. "I wouldn't know," he said, thinking it would be too catty to wonder aloud if Rory even knew. "She'd have told us if she wanted us to know." Remembering their disinterest in her career, he tried to help her out, "She's writing a memoir. Maybe you'll be able to suss out the details if it gets published." Then he changed the subject, "So Paris is seeing someone, that's good, isn't it?"

Madeline frowned. "I thought Doyle was perfect for her."

"Well, maybe they _were_ at one time, but not anymore," he said. He tentatively lifted a brow in question. "Right?"

"Oh, absolutely," Louise said. "Can you imagine living with Paris if she's sick of you? She said they were arguing all the time at the end." She added, "I wonder if her new guy knows what he's getting into."

Tristan reasoned, "If Paris is giving him the time of day, he must be up to the challenge."

Madeline said, "I can't believe _you_ aren't married yet."

"Yeah," Louise agreed. "How can that be?"

"I've moved around a lot," he answered. He tried to get them to focus back on his topic, "But I have been seeing someone for a few months, when I'm in the city." Tristan wanted to tell them, though Paris was hesitant, sure they wouldn't believe it. Either way, Madeline and Louise weren't tempted to delve into Paris's romantic life. He tried to ease them into the idea, from his side of the story, "She's incredibly smart and runs her own business, very successfully." He added, "She's also really great in bed."

"I bet she's gorgeous, too," Louise said. "You always got the pretty girls."

"She is," he confirmed. "Hey, remember that time I went on a date with Paris in high school?"

"We were so surprised," Madeline said. "Why would you want to go out with Paris?"

Before he could answer, Louise said, "He didn't. It was Rory's idea, remember?" She added, "Bad idea, as we all predicted."

"I wouldn't say bad idea. I just didn't give her a chance," he said. "Who knows what could have happened if I had?"

Louise shook her head. "It wouldn't have gone anywhere. You are two are completely different people."

They were not taking the bait. "Okay, true," he admitted. "But they say opposites attract. So maybe I missed an opportunity."

He didn't get any further as Madeline shrieked, "Oh, ow!" she exclaimed, rubbing her finger. "I broke a nail." She looked around the house. "I wonder if Paris would mind if I snooped for a fingernail filer."

Tristan pointed to the stairs. "Second floor bathroom, first door to the left," he said helpfully. "Check the second drawer down."

Madeline sprung up and left Tristan with the blond woman.

Louise focused on him intently, surely putting two and two together. She was astute that way and would pick up on how strange it was for Tristan to be familiar with the floorplan of Paris's house and the contents of her bathrooms. She asked, "You probably look great in one of those Navy uniforms, don't you?"

Or not.

He grinned anyway. "Better than Tom Cruise in _A Few Good Men_."

XXX

Lorelai opened her mouth, appalled, and closed it. Luke frowned deeply. "Oh my god," Lorelai said with a hand over her mouth, after Paris explained the outcome of an emergency surgery.

"I'll tell her what happened when she wakes up, and then you can see her." Paris quietly stepped into Rory's room and dismissed the nurse. After a glance at Rory's vitals, she took a seat next to the bed to watch her friend sleep.

It'd been a week since she rushed Rory to the hospital. Paris and the other doctors agreed they had to do something this morning. As had been the case since they got there, Paris had taken it upon herself to communicate that to Rory's family.

"Induce?" Lorelai had asked upon hearing the decision. "But she's barely 22 weeks, it's completely premature. A baby can't survive that kind of early delivery."

"If she managed to carry the baby to term, it won't live very long because of underdeveloped lungs and heart problems," Paris said gently. "If we don't do something, Rory's at risk. It's too dangerous to do nothing."

Lorelai turned to Luke and buried her head in his shoulder.

It took a long while for the anesthesia to wear off, so Paris got up and glanced at Rory's chart, for something to do. When Rory started to stir, Paris took a seat and waited some more.

"Hey," Rory said weakly when she was finally conscious. Her voice was scratchy from the oxygen tube that was pulled out of her throat after surgery.

"Hi," Paris said quietly.

"What happened?"

"There were complications. The placenta was embedded into the womb," Paris explained. "You started bleeding, a lot. We had to give you three transfusions." She added, "We had to rush you to the ER for a hysterectomy."

Rory opened her mouth, but nothing came out at first. "A hysterectomy?" she finally asked.

"You were bleeding so much, there was nothing else we could do."

"I'm only 33. A hysterectomy?" she asked in disbelief. She angrily asked, "There's _nothing_ else you could have done?"

"The other option was let you bleed to death and we weren't going to do that," Paris said evenly.

Rory took a shaky breath and tears pooled in her eyes. She didn't say anything for a long moment. "So that's it?" Both women were silent as Paris gave Rory time to process the heavy information. Rory looked away and swallowed hard. When she did talk, she said bitterly, "I guess you're happy how things turned out."

Gently, Paris asked, "Why would I be happy? You just went through something traumatic."

"But you didn't think I should have a kid. You got your wish."

"I help women fulfill their dreams by having babies, I wasn't wishing this on you," Paris said, her voice low. "Your eggs are fine. You can still have kids if you want any, in the future. You know where my office is."

"The future."

Paris nodded. She carefully spoke her mind, "This was not an ideal situation for you right now, in absolutely every way possible. But after you get your life in order, you should be able to handle it," she said. "You don't have to be married, but your views on parenting need an update. You do not have to be romantically involved with a man to share parenting responsibilities with him. I'm proof of that."

Rory was quiet. She swallowed again and averted her gaze.

After a pause, Paris exhaled. "Take some time for yourself, work on your manuscript." She wasn't sure this was the best time to bring that up, but also felt it was exactly the right time. "When you're ready, I'll give you my notes so you can fix it."

Rory turned back to her with a curious frown. "What do you think I need to fix?"

"Your theme. It's bullshit."

Rory's jaw dropped.

Paris had stayed up late every night that week, rereading the six chapters Rory had written so far. She wrote full page rebuttals of parallels that felt forced. She said, "You are not on a grand journey to relive your mother's life. You never have been, and everyone knows it. So I don't know why you're trying to frame it that way now, other than to justify the shitty year you've had." Rory's frown deepened, but she continued, "Your mom never intended for you to repeat her life, so stop spinning it that way."

"But that's the whole point, no matter what you do or what plans you make, you can still end up pregnant and alone, in the same position as your mom."

"That's incredibly defeatist," Paris deadpanned. "You and your mom agreed a long time ago that would not happen. Unless I'm wrong?"

Rory silently shook her head.

"Take care of yourself, and get back to being Rory Gilmore. There's already a Lorelai." Paris got up and headed for the door, but turned back. "And I was serious about what I said. Make an appointment if you want to do something with your eggs."

Before she got away, Rory stopped her, "Paris, hey." When Paris faced her, she said, "Thanks, for everything, this week. I'm—lucky to have you for a friend."

Paris nodded and gave her a soft smile.


	6. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Gabrielle and Elliot both giggled at the voice Paris made as she read them a story. They were sitting in the front room while they waited. Bright sunlight shone through the window, though the late fall day was quite chilly.

Paris still struggled at times to balance her work life with spending time with her children, but she was still putting in more effort than she had been. She was even willing to go so far as to say the kids liked her _as much as_ the nanny. After an extensive search and intense interview process, she hired another doctor on at her clinic to share responsibilities. It helped her keep her personal commitment to take a day and a half off every week to spend with the kids, and she could happily report they did not always drive her crazy.

When there was a knock at the door, she looked over and then back to the kids. "There's your dad, go get your stuff." For the most part, Gabrielle and Elliot had two of everything. But they still liked to take favorite toys and books back and forth. Often times one or the other would forget to bring everything back and a meltdown ensued.

The boy and girl sprang up from the couch and started the trek up the stairs. Meanwhile, Paris went to the door to let her ex-husband in and they greeted each other civilly. "They'll be right down," she said.

"Okay," Doyle said casually. There was a minute where neither had anything to say, until Doyle thought of something, "How did Rory's interview at _Vox_ go?"

Their mutual friend was always a safe topic. She'd heard about a job opening for a policy researcher at the explanatory news site. Paris had helped her prepare for the interview. Rory had mentioned the opening in passing, not as something she was necessarily interested in. Paris pushed her to apply.

"But I'm still working on my book," Rory had protested.

"You can work on it in the evenings," Paris countered. "Take a break, even."

The book was taking on a life of its own. It was like the Encyclopedia Gilmorica. With the way Rory was going, she might never get to a sufficient stopping point.

"If I take a break I'll lose momentum and I might not go back to it."

"That's what we all thought when you quit Yale, and look, you were fine," Paris said. "This is a job with a paycheck and benefits. You'd be crazy to pass up the opportunity without even trying."

Rory was silent for a moment, then she asked, "What if I don't get it?"

Paris's answer was brisk, "Then you'll try again next time."

She answered Doyle, "It went well. She got the job." Paris added, "She's looking for a new apartment in DC. She said she'll let you know her new address when she has one."

"Great," he said, nodding again. "I'm sure we'll hear her guest starring on The Weeds in no time."

"If she cures Matt Yglesias of his up talk, then I'll be impressed."

Doyle chuckled softly. He glanced around, for something to do, and eyes fell to her open laptop on the table. There was a picture of a man on the screen, with a profile. "New batch of breeders?"

Paris went over to close the laptop. "No, actually it's an online dating site."

Doyle raised a brow skeptically. "Onling dating, really?"

She raised her chin in defiance. "Yes. I've gone on a few dates."

"I guess it's safe to say none of them have been winners."

She crossed her arms. "How do you know?"

"Because you haven't had any guys around the kids." He leaned in to add, "They'd mention it if you did."

"I'm not going to expose them to any old idiot I find on the internet."

"So Tristan wasn't an idiot?" he asked. "I didn't think he was your type, but you did keep him around for quite a while. What happened with him?"

He moved to Brooklyn a couple months ago, as planned, when his commission was up. Just when they could have seen a lot more of each other, Paris broke things off. She didn't want him thinking it was serious. He seemed disappointed but not entirely surprised, and said he understood. "It was a rebound," she said. "He served his purpose and now I'm ready to get back out there."

"Hmmh," Doyle said with a nod. "Well, if the online algorithms don't yield acceptable results, remember there's always speed dating."

The corner of her mouth turned up. "Right." She knew he wasn't suggesting they get back together. They'd tried to stick it out, and it hadn't worked. The speed dating wasn't successful on it's own merits, so much as it had brought two intelligent minds together. They got off on good footing since she already knew he was smart and could keep up with her. No one stood a chance if they couldn't make it that far.

Admittedly, she could have an intelligent conversation with Tristan. She would never call him dumb. He invited her to a military ball in Nashville in the spring.

"I'd have to get a dress," she deadpanned when he'd asked, as though he was asking for way too much and it would greatly inconvenience her. In reality, it was one of those dreams she'd had as a young girl, when she allowed herself to dream of things other than Harvard. She had long since let both of those dreams go.

"So get one," Tristan replied, not accepting excuses. He'd taken their picture and texted it to Madeline and Louise with a message that they should take an interest when Paris says she's dating someone. When the girls started blowing up her phone, she turned it off with a roll of her eyes. Truth be told, she was actually smugly pleased with it all. After all this time, she was getting hers.

The kids came back downstairs with their things and gave Paris a quick hug before running out the door.

"I'll have them back in a week," Doyle reassured. He gestured to her laptop. "Don't settle for anyone who doesn't appreciate you. You deserve to be happy."

"Thanks," she said, her eyes lingering on the laptop.

XXX

Tristan was sitting at his dining table, in the middle of writing a brief. He stopped typing to refer to something in a legal book sitting next to his laptop when there was a knock at the door. He got up and rounded the table to see who was here.

Paris was standing in the hall, a familiar stern expression on her face. Without waiting to be invited in, she brushed passed him. "Do you know there are eight and a half million people in this city, but only a tiny number of them are decent quality men?"  
His brows creased as he watched her pace his living room in her coat and heeled boots. "Well, to be fair, only about half of the population is men, and some of them are married, so you're looking at a smaller percentage than the full eight million."

"It's still a lot of people," she ranted. "And most of them are complete idiots. How can it be that of all the available men in this city, _you_ would come out ahead?"

He blinked. "What?"

"The world is in a sorry state, for all the men to pale in comparison to you."

"Is this about my sperm again?" he asked.

"No." She paused a beat. "I've been dating, a bit. And so far, I am not impressed."

"It would be weird if you were."

"I don't think a satisfying conversation with another human being is asking for that much."

"It's not," he said slowly.

"And yet, I've only found a handful of men in my whole life who meet that standard." Somewhat grudgingly, she said, "It would seem as though, over the past year, you have been the only one to fill that role."

He took a step forward. "I see."

Quickly, she added, "Not that I need a man, I don't."

"Of course."

"And I don't need you criticising my life. I have a life coach for that."

"I understand," he said. Then, "I think I'm maybe hearing that I'm the best you can find. Out of all the millions of people in this city, I come out on top?" he asked. "Would I be correct to infer that?"

"All those people aren't men," she reiterated.

"Sure, but. . . ?"

"It's a correct inference."

"You sure make this difficult," he muttered. "But we made it." He cleared his throat and took another step to take her hands in his. "Paris Gellar, will you go out with me?"

"Yes," she said. "I will."

 _ **Fin**_


End file.
